"Let me laugh out loud, as I make your innards fall out!
Let me give you a taste of death, as I make you gag for breath!
Let me hear you scream, as I make you swallow all my steel!"
Such the cruel songs came out of a dozen mouths, a line uttered by one man repeatedly stabbing an orc here, another line by another man there as he kept yet another orc down while his comrade-at-arms bashed his skull on an ancient tree root.
"Bwueheheh..", probably the most demented low pitched laughter among the lot came out of one of the gore smeared hulks in their ranks. He had taken a beautiful tally which came to little surprise to those familiar with his hideous strength and ever unrestrained temper when battle came upon him. In the shadows beneath Mirkwood's canopy, thick as tar, black as the magic from the far south and east, there another skirmish had concluded on the sidelines of a greater battle that was still unfolding. In this part however, men had prevailed for now. Forstrang had not felt this free and if he'd able to put it to words alive. None here cared about how they looked to those in their vicinity and the viciousness that had a hold over most here was in fact encouraged rather than a reason for being ousted or in fact ended. These were men that had in fact learned from those they hated, the evil that housed in a fallen tower, who's minions were no puked out by every crevice, every dark hole, every natural outhouse on this world. Or so it may well seem.
"The great lords in their bell towers further east, the Elves we rightfully distrust and fear.
Get your heralds, get your scribes, you can stow your bows and open those perfumed ears!
The men of Wilderland are victorious once more, butchering the Necromancer's filth by the score!"
A raw shout of joy came out of them. These men were happy to fight and die simply for the sport of it! Battles such as these were hardly different from their every day lives as brigands, raiders or desperate adventurers trying to buy their way back among their fellows. It had been as if all their frustrations were finally allowed to come out and their entire lives had amounted for this moment. A glorious final fight for some or a memory worth cherishing among all those of lost romances, broken familial relations, failed ambitions and the residue of ancient hurts carried from one generation to the other.
Naturally almost none here were even conscious of such, so absorbed by the feelings of it all and indeed Forstrang was one of them. He looked at the ruin he had made out of an orc's face with his bloodied knuckles, "Not my blood!", he joked clumsily as he raised a fist to any passerby. Even some of the hardened veterans nodded more so as to not anger the brute rather than because they thought it funny.. at least a few didn't.
Then after his stupid laughing was done he went looking for the men who led this warband and there appeared Herban. A lean man with handsome grey eyes, brown hair that ran past his ears in two thick terrible braids and a magnificent beard that had his well developed chin shaven up to halfway his jaw on either side. Reasonably good looking, but among these men of mostly ill cared for fighters he by comparison might as well have something divine about him. And he indeed had fought hard too with his axe that still dripped with gore. He looked at them all, but he gave no words of encouragement. Instead he began to sing as he had done so many times before and these warriors joined in.
"Mountains grey I have seen..!", he began..
The men began to grin and chests started heaving, shoulders squared up and some started t-posing as they allowed yet another flow of ecstasy of frenzied energy to enter their beings.
"I have travelled over the dreadful seas..!", Forstrang continued as the first.
"We have lived through the worst, to slake our lasting bloodthirst!", most of them now added.. By this they knew not only that there was going to be more fighting ere the day ended, but even who to go towards and so they did. Cheering, laughing, roaring and singing into the next fray!
Herban led this hazard of killers off to the high ground, they made good pace.
"Look me in the eyes, empty of love like sunless skies!", it came out as they formed up in their band in the shape of an arrow point with Forstrang in front. In one hand his long knife that he had simply refused to give up for it was made of iron and he knew how to wield it whilst in the other he held a broad stone tipped spear that only a handful could use with any meaningful strength and agility.
Herban moved in front of him, "Brodre, lead us into the next victory!", he said with their faces inches apart. Then the man slapped his bigger sibling. Forstrang grunted, but there was no surprise. Another slap and the big man began growling. The big men behind him whacked him with the handles of their own spears.
"Wrargh!!"
Forstrang's veins began standing out and his hands trembled, he blinked and his teeth appeared from beneath this big bush that was his beard. Then Herban jogged aside,
"I share Men's Gift in my stride!" , Herban roared
"Bloody the trail leaking from my boots!!", all men roared and like a bull let out of its cage Forstrang with his eyes wide went charging down the slope where a tight knit group of warriors slowly, but certainly losing their fight were surrounded by yet more orcs.
"I cannot lie, deep is the cavern where my blackened heart!", with those words Forstrang fell upon the orcs that turned around too late to stop the incoming onslaught of bodies. The big man did not stab, but swiped his spear cracking several skulls in front of him at once while his knife slashed at eyes, ears and mouths.
"Beats a grim tune, till I meet my own doom!"; and certainly as more of the men charged in so did yet other gangs of orcs came from shadows above and behind not daring to close in and settling for launching arrows into the press of bodies. Though the northern men fought on knowing that so long as death did not happen to them and they were those meting it out it mattered little what occurred to their comrades of the fray.
Too quick for anyone to know how Forstrang in his mindless fury sliced his spear tip over the shields of those that were surrounded. Those holding that wall were confused, except one man. All of a sudden a tall blond fellow splattered in black blood jumped out and dodged every swipe with studied ease. Indeed studied because there were old comrades. Forstrang received a sword pommel against his jaw then all of a sudden those cold deadly eyes with a stare that could break any regular man looked into his and among the chaos of his mind there was a moment of recognition., "It's my you idiot!", the voice came out ever without apparent emotion. Only that eternal judgment of who was the strongest and therefore deserved life. In the moment the judgment was against Forstrang's favor, but only slightly. "The orc is over there!", he shouted dryly while turning the bigger man's face in the correct direction. All of this in the span of mere heartbeats and then a reply came out between the groaning, "Grr Bjorstein! Where is Styrk..?" Bjorstein shrugged, "Where there is treasure, women or glory to be won." "Forstrang looked about himself, orcs rarely had anything worth keeping including women. Glory would be were the fighting would be thickest however." With the arrow head formation utterly fallen apart and orcs still coming out of the woods the big man made a random guess and went to swipe with his spear, using it like a long knife if anything. It didn't take long before the orcs started fighting one another to steer clear of him.
Bjorstein looked over his shoulder at the madmen he was leading into battle today. Frontiersmen enamored by their chieftain who was a woman of great physical strength, beauty and an obsession with dragons. The only place where he was given a home. In truth he cared not one jot, it simply isn't something he is capable of. Still they held themselves well. Not even a moment of doubt even as a quarter of them were overrun and trampled. A bit of confusion at their deaths at best. He could respect that in them and he pointed his sword confident in their madness, "Fighters of the Grey Mountains! The chief demands our victory! Go claim it! GO!"
They didn't shout, they didn't seem particularly unified in thought. They went forward shields up, spears and swords held out with the odd ease of someone taking a stroll over a pleasant market place, deciding which stall to pick first. Bjorstein dodged a small rock tossed at the back of his head from the ranks, "I know that was you poet!" Childish snickering ensued, but was swiftly drowned out by the ensuing clash.
Then Bjorstein left them to fend for themselves and decided that if in this chaos he was going to come out he needed that dumb lump from his old company and fighting beyond hope that he could prevent even more arrows and even the poor excuses for swords perforating the bigger man's gambison and slowly pricking him to death.
Who knows, maybe Styrk was actually here somewhere or the other one with the mashed nose who's name Bjorstein couldn't remember...
